Imperfection is beauty
by rascalnikova
Summary: The rumors are true. Marilyn Monroe was a slob. This story contains fart and scat fetish content.


Preface

The following events are fictionalized, but based on the true story of a young woman named Norma Jeane Baker, who became the sex icon we know today as Marilyn Monroe.

Marilyn Monroe had what would likely be diagnosed as Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I make this diagnosis based on Dr. Gerald Schoenwold's analysis in his article "The Psychology of a Fart," where he recalls from her first husband James Dougherty that Norma Jeane, before she became Marilyn Monroe, on a night out in the movie theatre, let out a fart that was apparently the worst he ever smelled, one that apparently "filled several rows of the theater and just sat there for ten minutes like a ominous cloud." The article Pin-up Marilyn was 'flatulent, dirty and ate in bed' by journalist Emily Dugan credits Marilyn movie co-star Clark Gable's biographer David Bret for a similar narrative, who adds, "she suffered from what today would be described as irritable bowel syndrome."

Schoenwold also states that "it is well known, for example, that sometimes people urinate or defecate out of fear." Marilyn Monroe spent most of her childhood in an orphanage, and was allegedly raped at age 11. "Sometimes people, especially... certain colorful types, fart when they are clowning around. … In the incident described above, Marilyn Monroe may have farted to clown around or to express rebellion. Her husband at the time said she couldn't stop giggling. It may be that she took pleasure in fouling the air and in upsetting people." It isn't so farfetched to think that Marilyn Monroe, viewed as a sex icon, but a pseudonym and a persona of the real tomboy that was Norma Jeane Baker, would express this rebellion, or as I would argue her true character, through her flatulence. Of course, there is the fact that often people use their own disabilities for their own benefit, exemplified by scientist Stephen Hawking or artist Chuck Close.

"On other occasions a fart can represent an expression of a feeling. It could be anger (expressed as exhibitionistic defiance as in Marilyn's case), neediness (as when a person farts in order to draw attention)" and of course, Marilyn had a lot to be both angry about, and needy for. She was a socialist at the time of McCarthyism, which of course stirred up a lot of anger, and as for neediness, her traumatic childhood caused an anxiety, thus a low self-esteem, that ended with her suicide. She was put on a pedestal for her beauty, and by others, chastised for her ideology, her suicide, and her ownership of her own sexuality. This is the perfect storm to create, in my opinion, the perfect fart, in order to prove to those that worship her as a goddess that she's a human like the rest of us, and in order to take power back from those that sought to discredit her, by putting the 'gross' in 'gross domestic product.'

Lena Pepitone, Marilyn's maid and confidant, surely has quite a bit of knowledge of Marilyn "at her worst" as the famous saying goes, as in at both her most vulnerable, and her most uninhibited, as well as her bowels at their most irritable. But, I won't spoil any more. You can have the movie story as foreshadowing. You can read my fictionalized accounts, and if you'd like to read up on her flatulent habits, you can read my sources. I admit, I took some creative liberties with the farts themselves, as she managed to never fart on camera, supposedly anyway, but I can dramatize the situations that ensue based on the evidence of her Irritable Bowel Syndrome, paired with actual events in, or periods of, her life.

Finally, I will admit that through my research, there is much speculation that these stories regarding her slovenly habits are fake, as in libel or slander in order to take a successful woman down a peg. But in my opinion, for one, this does not desexualize her in the slightest. Don't get me started on the United States' vanilla sex culture, where BBW or Ebony are somehow regarded as fetishes. When we do think of more taboo fetishes, we think of BDSM, the literal infliction or sensation of pain, rather than, as I would argue, an equally valid sexualization of a bodily function, known as the fart fetish, or eproctophilia. Besides, butts themselves are worshipped in our society as symbols of sexuality, and "eating ass" is the millenial's alternative to intercourse. Why not take it to its logical conclusion? Second of all, Lena Pepitone was famous because of her connection to Marilyn Monroe, and so was herself a powerful woman. Certainly not as powerful, but at least she was not discredited by conservative pundits before and after her death like Marilyn was. So, if we are to read this with a feminist lens, like those that believe these accounts as libel do, it makes no sense for a woman to vilify another woman for mutual discredit. It would, of course, be so much easier, and more mutually beneficial, to talk about what everyone wanted to hear about Marilyn Monroe, which is her sexual promiscuity. If no one in this culture wants to hear about how Marilyn Monroe was supposedly disgusting, then what is to be gained by Lena Pepitone doing so? The answer is, people insinuating she is, at best, a liar, and at worst, a libelous criminal. Surely the reason she would tell the world about Marilyn's nastiness is because it is the truth, and out of respect for Marilyn.

I will leave you with another one of Schoenwold's sentiments. "I think we need to own our animalistic nature, not suppress it and be false selves. Being false leads to all kinds of mental and physical disorders. It is when we are true to ourselves and embrace all of ourselves, even our farts, that we become fully human. Maybe in that respect Marilyn Monroe's embracing of her movie theater fart was her way of embracing her humanity."

Chapter 1

A queen for country

Norma Jeane Baker toils over the coils on an assembly line, and wipes sweat from brow. When she focuses on her laborious work like this, her face reddens, and the widow's peak of her naturally curly brunette hair shapes her face into a pink heart. Dave Conover admires her beauty downwind from Norma Jeane, next to her on the conveyor belt. Parts of planes and prototype drones rush towards her, and she sprays the parts with a fire retardant. She thinks of her husband, Jim Dougherty, in the war, and wonders if he would ever be in this plane, or even more important, be covered by one on the battlefield. With that, she sprays each part with fervor, until she works herself up into an anxious fit that stirs itself in her tummy and, as an anxious tic, manifests itself as a cute, though troubled, rhythmic turn of her waist that churns her thick thighs. Her bum, clad in denim shorts, waggles tightly as her knees lock together. Dave, at this pitiful, candid, and sexual image, which would later be her brand, turns back to the parts that were now freshly sprayed, and chastises himself for ogling a married woman, for now without her permission. He admires her face as an incomplete work of art, but her body stirs sexual feelings within him that he felt uncomfortable with. He returned to his work, and then her face, her plump bow-shaped lips in a humble pink lipstick, her peaked, expressive eyebrows that furrow and lax as she focuses, her blue irises and long lashes in her foxy, almond shaped eyes, her radiant, toothy smile as she coats a part perfectly, a modern Mona Lisa.

At lunch break, Dave musters up the courage to ask her, "Hey, eager beaver," he calls her. When she turned to him, he nodded. "You ever consider modeling?"

Norma Jeane blushes and puffs her cheeks out. She looks down bashfully, or as her internal excuse, focuses on opening her bag lunch, a ham sandwich that she wasn't sure she should eat because of her tummy troubles, but decided to anyways, to keep the energy up for the rest of the shift. She shifts the seat of her pants on the bench, and Dave's eyes drift unwillingly to her bum. He notices her thighs are quite shapely and curvaceous, a healthy, almost indulgent weight, but that her butt was on the flatter side, to say nothing of the satisfying bell-curve of it near the bottom. He would get to know that butt real soon from those risque photos that would be published of her. For now, she was uncorrupted.

"Are you busting my chops?" she asks him inquistively, her head tilted and her lips pursed at him.

"I take photos," he explains as he unbuttons the satchel at his knees and takes out his portable 35mm Leica, polished and silver. "See, it's pointed at ya," he adds playfully as he rests it carefully on his knee and angles it towards her. "I call it the Eye of the Beholder."

"And why is that?" Norma Jeane humors him, stifling a smile.

"Because it sees beauty."

Norma Jeane blushes as she bites clumsily into her sandwich. Dave smiles back, but in a gentle way, stripped of any expectations of her stripping, that caught Norma Jeane off guard.

After a bit of silence as she scarfed down her lunch, the workers were called back to the line. Before she returns to the line, she walks over to the warehouse, where the parts she sprayed are organized on the shelves. The stockers were on their breaks, so the room was empty. She closes the door behind her, sighs in privacy, and keels over from the pain of her nervous tummy.

Then, her eyes widen, as she sees a poster that reads:

FOOD IS A WEAPON. DON' T WASTE IT!

She smiles mischeviously at it, as if it gives her permission. If she can't waste food, then that surely means she can't waste the byproduct. Why else would they call it cutting the cheese?

Norma Jeane takes out her lighter and cigarettes from her back pocket, but puts the cigarettes back into her breast pocket, for safe-keeping. Then, she bends at the tummy over a railing, grabs an airplane part, smells it for the fire retardant she sprayed on it today, and after confirming it with a proud smile, stays in position while she sets the part on the table behind her, level to her ass. With her other hand, she puts her Zippo lighter right in front of her ass, between it and the part, flicks the lighter open, and when she sees the flame signal, winks unknowingly as she strains her face to let one rip. After a few pained seconds—

BBrrBbrbrrbbrbrBbrrrbt…

"Aaah…" she first exhales in relief after the 5-second bubbler, and then, "Ah-hah!" she cries as she watches the flame grow in the haze of her fart cloud. Then was her chance to strike the match while it was hot, so to speak.

TFFRT-VVVRT!

This much louder, much shorter toot propelled the gas, and then some, towards the lighter, and her ass became a flamethrower as it doused the part with an ignited fart. After it subsided, she saw that the part was covered in brown ash, but was not on fire, charred, or at all melted! She was quite proud of her work, both her fire retardance and her firey flatulence. She decided to check her work again, and rubbed her finger along the part, caking it in brown ash, and sniffed it. It smelled different than the fart cloud that surrounded her, and on second thought, looked different than ash usually does. So with her relatively clean hand, she unzipped her jeans, and slid her hand in between her cheeks, and immediately, her face changed from relieved, to uncomfortable.

Apparently, her first bubbly fart caused a bit of mudbutt, and it was so humid and dense a cloud that the shart caught on fire and melted to create the suspicious brown, fecal ash. In this position, she felt her britches start to sop up as the hot, melted shart audibly and tactilely dripped down her crack, so in a rush, she stopped at the bathroom, wiped herself clean, quickly washed her hands, and returned to the assembly line, carrying the smell with her as it embedded itself into the seat of her jeans.

Obviously, Dave smelled her success before, but now it seemed rancid. So he went on a smoke break to get some fresh air.

Marilyn watched him and smiled as she scratched her butt through her jeans, then after confirming the coast was clear, smelling her fingernails. Her eyes fluttered and she was inspired again.


End file.
